


is this all I am?

by suzukiblu



Series: mad elephants [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Fantasy Gender Roles, Foster Kid Jesse McCree, Gen, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Minor Sexual Harassment, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega/Omega, Original Character(s), Sexism, Young Jesse McCree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: Sometimes foster pups get split up from their littermates, but Jesse’s littermates are dead. Assuming he ever had any, anyway; maybe not. But he's an O, even if he don't have heats proper, so he must've. Betas are singles, sometimes, but omegas? Nah, not unless somethingrealbad happened.Jesse got found in a warzone covered in blood with no sign of any other pups or parents around, sosomekind of something bad happened.His life has mostly been a series of bad things happening, so that always sounded about right to him.





	is this all I am?

**Author's Note:**

> dancinbutterfly is to be blamed for this.

Sometimes foster pups get split up from their littermates, but Jesse’s littermates are dead. Assuming he ever had any, anyway; maybe not. But he's an O, even if he don't have heats proper, so he must've. Betas are singles, sometimes, but omegas? Nah, not unless something _real_ bad happened. 

Jesse got found in a warzone covered in blood with no sign of any other pups or parents around, so _some_ kind of something bad happened. 

His life has mostly been a series of bad things happening, so that always sounded about right to him. 

.

.

.

“‘Ey, Jesse,” Salma says, and Jesse leans over the edge of the top bunk to squint down at her. She's a knothead of an alpha, but when she ain't sniffing around where he don't want her she's one of the few decent ones he knows. 

“What?” he asks, suspicious on principle anyway. Just 'cuz she's usually decent don't mean she always is. 

“Don't look at me like that, baby doll, I just need a favor,” she says wheedlingly. 

“If it involves your rut or your knot, you can fuck right off right now,” he says, and she makes a face at him. 

“You're the one who smells like goddamn Christmas,” she says. “But no, it ain't about that. Unless you're feeling a little hot under the collar?” 

She leers at him. He scowls at her. She knows damn well he don't get real heats. 

“You’re such a fucking dick,” he says. 

“Anytime you want it, baby,” she rumbles. Her alpha voice does some shit for him, he's not gonna lie, but he has no interest in letting it go anywhere. He's keeping his head down this time. No trouble. Salma is nothing _but_ trouble. “I just need you to cover for me at lights out, is all, I met a real sweet O who _appreciates_ me and I gotta take him out proper.” 

“Since when do you take anybody out proper?” Jesse snorts. 

“He's _posh_ ,” Salma says. “No way he'll put out on the first date.” 

“So why are you interested?” Jesse asks.

“'Cuz this is our _second_ date,” Salma says smugly. 

“You're fucking hopeless,” Jesse says. She’s the closest thing he has to a friend, and he wouldn’t trust her any further than he could throw her. 

“Knew I could count on you, sweetheart,” Salma says with a grin. Jesse rolls his eyes at her, but whatever, a little white lie or two ain't gonna fuck him. She clambers up the ladder and kisses his cheek and he scowls and shoves her off when she takes advantage of the closeness to cop a feel. 

“Fucking rutter,” he gripes. 

“You know it!” she laughs, then jumps down and shamelessly sneaks out the window like it ain't still _light_ out, the idiot. Jesse ain't met an A yet who don't get stupid as fuck at the thought of getting their knot locked, though. He knows a lot of O’s who ain't much better, admittedly, but the alphas still manage to be just that little bit worse about it. 

Still, it’s just a little white lie. And everybody knows Jesse’s a liar. 

.

.

.

Jesse’s thirteen, and safer than most O’s his age in the system—his heats ain’t right, ‘cuz he ain’t right. He won’t ever have a litter, but he don’t exactly want one anyway. So he don’t gotta worry about going into heat and getting stupid and begging the first alpha he smells to mount him; he’s just gotta worry about the alphas who’d mount him whether he was begging for it or not. 

He’s gotten in a lot of fights with alphas like that. 

Jesse don’t see what the big deal about alphas is. A knot can’t feel _that_ good. At least, not good enough to be worth putting up with all the uninvited pawing and condescending nonsense and getting treated like he’s _delicate_. Jesse ain’t delicate. He’s big for his age, especially for an O, and he knows how to hit somebody so they go down and _stay_ there. He never gets caught when he shoplifts or picks a pocket, and he lies better than anybody else he knows. People believe him, when he lies—even though everybody _knows_ he’s a liar, they still believe him. 

When he was a pup, sometimes he’d pretend his parents were somebody important. But so did just about everybody he’s met, so that ain’t special. Once he tried to convince a social worker his parents were soldiers in the war and that they’d be coming back for him when it was over. They weren’t and they wouldn’t be, of course. 

He remembers, vaguely, that his mama was big and strong and dark and his daddy was big and strong and pale, or maybe the other way around, but that’s most of all he remembers. Whatever their real faces were or whatever they really did, he don’t know; he lied so much they look like soldiers in his head. 

His first social worker told him he told her his parents were Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes when he was _three_ , so clearly he always had it in him. 

.

.

.

Salma stays out _way_ past curfew. Jesse lies. Their foster parents are barely paying attention, so they buy it; he don’t even have to try. It ain’t hard. Salma don’t have littermates either, so they look out for each other when the litters try and gang up on one of them. He don’t know what happened to hers any more than he knows what happened to his, but he ain’t gonna be asking. 

Salma sneaks back in the window stinking like sex, and Jesse makes a face. 

“You too stupid to take a shower before coming back?” he says. 

“Didn’t really have the chance,” she says dismissively, clambering up the ladder just high enough to grin at him in the moonlight. He gives her a dubious look in return, and her grin only widens. “I tell you what, sweetheart, you don’t know what you’re missing, being an O. You all taste like _candy_.” 

“I wouldn’t rut any better than I heat,” he snorts, swatting her off before she can cop a feel again. She laughs. 

“Guess not,” she says. “Everything go okay?” 

“Smooth as butter,” he tells her, and she laughs again and drops down into the lower bunk. They ain’t supposed to sleep in the same room—they ain’t littermates, after all—but the foster parents either haven’t noticed or don’t care. She watches him get dressed and sometimes she cops a feel or kisses him, but she also snarled Declan and Audra out of the room the last time he got as close to heated up as he gets and didn’t lay a hand on him herself, so he puts up with it. 

He’s had worse roommates, anyway. 

.

.

.

The news is playing some hyped-up nonsense about Overwatch again. Jesse used to obsess about Overwatch—doing right, bringing justice—but he’s old enough now to know that’s full of shit. He watches Jack Morrison field questions from reporters anyway, bored out of his mind by the answers, but don’t change the channel. Morrison’s got a nice voice. Salma thinks he has a crush on him _(“ooo, baby doll, is that American dream thing your type?”)_ , but one: Jesse don’t get crushes, ‘cuz he ain’t a _kid_ , and two: it’s just that he’s got a nice voice. So what? So does everybody who gets shoved in front of a camera to explain why they blew up half a city block. Morrison ain’t special, just photogenic. 

Jesse crunches through his cereal, half-listening to the TV, and then gets up and grabs his bag to head to school. No one here’s gonna care if he’s late—hell, half the kids in the house are still asleep—but he don’t feel like dealing with the teachers’ bitching today. 

“Overwatch is here to protect you,” Jack Morrison says as Jesse heads out the front door, and Jesse snorts. 

.

.

.

 _“Quiero respirar tu cuello despacito,”_ Jesse sings softly to himself, a broken little lullaby-sounding thing that he only half-remembers. He probably heard it from a foster parent, but who knows, really. He’s been through so many houses at this point, he could’ve picked it up anywhere. 

.

.

.

“Who the hell are you?!” the angry-looking beta demands. 

“Name’s Morrissey,” he lies. 

.

.

.

 _“Run,”_ Salma whispers, sharp and quick, and Jesse knows enough to listen to her. 

.

.

.

Salma drags herself upstairs with bruises all over and laughs when Jesse starts freaking out. He’s used to this kind of thing, but Salma’s mouth is blood-red and her eye is swollen shut and usually they _hide_ it when they hit you, usually they don’t even care enough to _bother_. Everybody else is hiding in their rooms. 

“He lost his job,” Salma says as he’s wiping blood off her face. “Says it’s our fault.” 

“That don’t even make _sense_ ,” Jesse says, even knowing that it don’t have to, of course; people like that, they’ll take any excuse. And if they ain’t got an excuse, well, then they’ll make one up. That’s just how it is. 

“Yeah,” Salma laughs, and Jesse sees Audra peeking in and _hisses_ at her, his hackles going straight up. The world goes gray at the edges, something blood-red burning in his eye. 

“Fuck off!” he snaps, and she retreats quickly. Salma spits blood onto the floor. Jesse’d care, but he really don’t care. 

“It’s cool, baby doll, don’t sweat it,” she rumbles at him in her alpha voice, bringing up her hands to cup his face—like he’s _delicate_. He bites the meat of her palm sharply and she laughs again. “Relax, dumbass,” she says. “I’ve had worse.” 

“That don’t mean it ain’t _bad_ ,” Jesse says. She might be concussed. How do you check for that again? 

He hates it here. 

Where hasn’t he hated it, though? 

.

.

.

“Do you ever think about running away?” Declan asks. 

“I would not run away with you if you _paid_ me, rutter,” Jesse snorts, and Declan sighs. 

“Not like that,” he says. “Just—like leaving. Going someplace else.” 

“Like where, juvie?” Jesse asks. “Because that’s where you’re gonna end up at this rate. Juvie if you’re _lucky_ , actually, they might try you as an adult, you keep pulling this shit.” 

“Don’t be such a shit, A’s don’t like it,” Declan says sourly. 

“Ain’t nothing about me for an A to like,” Jesse reminds him with another snort. Who’d knowingly mate an O who couldn’t pup? Who didn’t even have real _heats_? Not fucking likely. 

“You can’t get knocked up and you never whine for attention,” Declan says. “What’s not to like?” 

“Fuck you,” Jesse says. He should slap him, probably; what he does is punch him. Declan punches him back, because of course he does, and because he’s Declan it _ain’t_ pleasant. Jesse spits in his face and then it degrades into an actual fight. 

If he was gonna run away from anywhere, it’d be here. 

.

.

.

“Who are you?” the confused omega behind the counter asks. 

“Name’s Reynolds,” he lies.

.

.

.

Jesse is smoking a cigarette behind the school and pretending not to care that Salma is still in the front office, probably getting chewed out and maybe getting suspended or expelled because that’s the way their lives always seem to go. She was stupid to punch that other alpha, probably, but it needed done and nobody else was gonna do it. 

He wishes there were someplace better than this. 

.

.

.

He wishes . . . 

.

.

.

“Aw, don’t cry,” Salma says, grinning at him. “It’s okay, it’s just a few detentions!” 

“I ain’t _crying_ ,” Jesse snaps. He don’t ever cry, he’s got enough problems without anybody deciding he’s _soft_. She laughs and leans in and kisses him. Normally he’d shove her off or something, but he’d really thought she was getting expelled. 

“You’re so sweet,” she says. He bites her, and she laughs again and puts a hand on his pec. He scowls at her and swats it away. 

“Don’t be gross,” he says. 

“Don’t be so cute when you _cry_ , then,” Salma replies with a leer, and his scowl darkens. 

“I _ain’t_ crying!” 

“Mmmhm, baby doll,” she says, and kisses him again. She sticks her tongue in his mouth. He bites her again. “Oh, _no_ mercy.” 

“I ain’t the merciful type,” Jesse says, and she laughs. 

“Did I ask for any?” she says. 

.

.

.

Jesse’s in heat, which ain’t the same for him as it is for most O’s. Most O’s get crazy with it and want nothing like they want a knot; Jesse gets cranky and wants petted, though he ain’t dumb enough to actually tell anybody that. 

He still _smells_ like he’s in heat, is the thing, so he can’t leave the house or go to school or anything. Too “disruptive”, an O walking around smelling like that. Admittedly, staying in is better than dealing with all the A’s who take one sniff and think he’s gonna roll over and present. 

It’s not great with this set of foster parents, though. They’re both betas, thank _fuck_ , but they hate it when any of the omegas go into heat and they have to deal with a houseful of riled-up kids. He always ends up behind a locked door, one way or another. 

“Jess- _e_ ,” Audra whines from the other side of this time’s locked door, and Jesse scowls down at the book he’s been thumbing through. It’s about the war and boring as shit, but there’s nothing else to do in here. 

“Fuck off,” he says. “I ain’t any more in the mood than I was the last four times.” 

“But you smell so _good_ , sweetheart. Don’t you want taken care of?” she asks wheedlingly. Jesse rolls his eyes. 

“If I wanted your knot, I’d _ask_ for it, you stupid fucking rutter,” he retorts sourly. “Go bug Lissy, she’ll put up with your crap.” 

“Lissy doesn’t need me,” Audra says. “C’mon, beautiful, I bet if you just—”

 _“No,”_ he cuts her off loudly, scowl darkening. Where are their stupid foster parents, anyway? He shouldn’t have to put up with this crap. He especially shouldn’t have to put up with Audra, who’s convinced that one good knotting will “fix” him. The doctors made it real clear nothing was gonna do that, even if he _wanted_ fixed. Even if it would work, why would he ever wanna do it? “I wouldn’t want your lousy knot if you _paid_ me.” 

“You’re such a _bitch_ ,” Audra snarls, thumping a hand against the door. Jesse’s glad it’s a sturdy one, even if Audra’s pretty small and slender for an alpha. Declan’s not, for one thing, and most of the house is this close to falling apart as it is. “Don’t be such a fucking tease and then get mad when somebody tries to take you up on it!” 

Yeah, he definitely does not want to get fixed and have to deal with assholes like this every cycle. 

“Get a life, Audra,” Jesse says, and goes back to the stupid boring-ass book. 

.

.

.

“Declan’s gonna rut,” Lissy says dreamily, pulling her brush through her hair. Jesse resists the urge to gag. 

“Unfortunate,” he says. Declan’s always an asshole when his rut’s coming on, especially to O’s. Lissy is apparently into that. Jesse decidedly _ain’t_. 

“He smells so _good_ , though!” Rowan giggles. Jesse has smelled plenty of alphas, and frankly none of them smelled especially good to him, least of all Declan. Even Lissy and Rowan smell better to him than that. He supposes that’s another part of how his hormones and whatever are messed up. 

“I’m gonna go hang out with the betas,” he says. “Call me when you ain’t fussed over some asshole just ‘cuz you like how he _smells_.” 

“Don’t hold your breath,” Lissy says, scowling at him. 

He never has been much good at making friends. 

.

.

.

Jesse’s smoking on the roof. Salma peeks up through the skylight curiously. 

“There you are,” she says. 

“Here I am,” he says, flicking ash off his cigarette. She clambers up onto the roof and slides over to him, and he scowls at her. She has a black eye and she’s grinning. “What damn fool thing did you do now?” 

“Nothing important,” she says with a dismissive shrug, grin turning sly. “Why, you worried about me, babe?” 

“Like I’d worry about gangrene,” Jesse grunts, and she laughs. Salma can always laugh. It’s so _easy_ for her. Jesse has no idea how she manages it. 

“C’mere,” she says coaxingly, and Jesse frowns at her. “Don’t look at me like that, I’ll be good!” 

“You’re never good,” Jesse retorts, and she laughs again. 

“Okay, but is it _that_ bad when I’m bad?” she asks with a pointed leer. Jesse scowls. 

“Yes,” he says, although it isn’t, really. Not compared to Declan or Audra or a lot of other A’s he’s known. Still, just because Salma’s better than that don’t mean he wants her pawing at him whenever she feels like it. It’s okay sometimes, but not _all_ the time. 

“Liar,” Salma says, grinning broadly and tugging him towards her. 

Which—obviously. Everyone knows he is one. 

.

.

.

There’s a new kid. He’s an O with bruised-looking eyes and a split lip and a look like he’d fight anybody who so much as talked to him. 

Jesse thinks he’s in love. 

“What’s got you acting so weird?” Salma asks. 

“Nothing,” Jesse lies. 

.

.

.

The new O is named Chance. He’s fifteen and he bares his teeth any time anybody looks at him. He don’t have littermates, or if he does they ain’t here. Jesse feels some sympathy, but mostly like climbing him. It ain’t the _best_ impulse, he already knows—he ain’t dumb enough to go around throwing himself at strangers, other O’s or not. 

_Especially_ not other O’s. That might not end well. 

Or definitely won’t. 

He don’t know who were dumb enough or cruel enough to put an unbonded O with real heats in a foster home with this many A’s and no littermates, but he ain’t surprised to see it happen. He’s been in the system since he was three; he’s seen dumber and crueler before, and he’s sure he’ll see it again. Makes it hard to say hello to a guy, though. 

“Hey,” he tries, and Chance hisses threateningly at him. 

Well. That’s an auspicious beginning. 

.

.

.

“He’s so weird,” Lissy complains. 

“Super-weird,” Rowan agrees. 

“Sure,” Jesse lies. 

.

.

.

“Fuck off,” Chance snarls. 

“Ain’t you a sweetheart,” Jesse says. 

.

.

.

Chance is bandaged fingers, is twitchy gestures, is flickering eyes and impatient restlessness. He don’t stay still and he don’t want anything to do with anybody. Jesse is definitely in love, even though Chance hisses at him more than he talks to him. More than he talks to _anybody_ , far as Jesse can tell. He wants to be here even less than everybody else does, which is some damn accomplishment. 

He has some beat-to-shit gang ink, but Jesse’s supposed to pretend not to recognize that kind of thing. The social workers get too curious, you go around admitting you know that kind of thing. 

He’s supposed to be sleeping in the same room as Jesse, but Jesse don’t know where he actually sleeps. He ain’t displaced Salma yet, at least. She wouldn’t be sitting in the other half of Jesse’s bed right now if he had. 

“You’re so dumb,” Salma says, brushing her fingers over the bloody corner of Jesse’s mouth. He smiles—painfully—and pretends he’s like her, and can always laugh. 

“It was pretty dumb,” he agrees. He knows better than to get in the way when their asshole foster father is on a bender. He was distracted, though—he didn’t catch the signs. So really, this is what he gets: a bleeding mouth and bruised ribs and a lot of pain. He’s gonna have to make up some story about how he got hurt, probably; he’s got gym tomorrow. Then again, he could just cut class. Who really cares? 

“You look like shit,” Salma says. 

“Thanks,” he says dryly. 

“He’s not gonna hurt you like that again,” she promises, pressing a kiss to the uninjured corner of his mouth. Jesse snorts; Salma’s never been as good a liar as he is. 

.

.

.

Jesse tames Chance the best way he knows how, which is with a lot of bribes. He sneaks extra food to him, hisses at anybody who gives him too much shit, and covers for him even though he’s never asked him to. 

“Why do you do that shit?” Chance demands, and Jesse can’t really answer. He knows why, obviously, it just ain’t the safest thing to say out loud. Or even _think_. 

“Why do you care?” he asks instead, and Chance gets this frustrated look on his face and don’t say anything. Jesse wonders what would happen if he kissed him. Probably nothing good, except for that he’d have gotten to kiss him. He ain’t kissed that many people, but it might be worth it. 

Then Declan and Audra start making a racket downstairs and whatever might’ve happened then ain’t gonna happen now. 

That’s a good thing, Jesse reminds himself as he watches Chance retreat. 

.

.

.

Salma’s still the one sleeping in his room. 

.

.

.

“Don’t,” Chance says, and Jesse hesitates, stopping in the middle of pulling back. “Just—don’t.” 

“I ain’t done nothing,” Jesse reminds him. Chance glares at him. He’s got real pretty eyes, Jesse can’t help but think. He even looks good angry. 

“You done enough,” Chance says like that’s an answer, putting a hand on Jesse’s chest. He tries real hard not to lean into it, but it’s even harder not to shudder. 

“You think everything’s a fucking trick,” he says. 

“It is,” Chance says, and Jesse snorts at him. He ain’t the trusting type neither, but he can at least carry on a damn _conversation_. It ain’t like it’s hard. 

“Whatever,” he says. Chance’s hand is still on his chest. He ain’t real sure what to do about that, but dislodging it seems like the worst possible idea. He wants it there. He wants Chance to _want_ it to be there. It’s the most he’s wanted anything in a long, long time. 

He wants to lean in closer, but neither of them does. 

.

.

.

“Don’t,” Chance says, so Jesse don’t. 

.

.

.

And don’t. 

.

.

. 

And-- 

.

.

.

“Come _here_ ,” Chance says, so Jesse does. 

.

.

.

Jesse ain’t kissed that many people, but he thinks he might never kiss anybody else again. He don’t see the point, after Chance. It ain’t gonna get any better. How could it? 

“You’re the worst,” Chance says between kisses, and Jesse smiles against his mouth. 

“I do my best,” he says. Chance snorts, then kisses him again. It’s sweet and dizzy-warm, and it’s nothing like kissing anyone else has ever been. Jesse ain’t ever been right, he knows it, but right now it’s damn good to be wrong. “Oh, ain’t you the most merciless thing.” 

“Shut up,” Chance says, and bites his lip. Jesse shudders all the way down his spine. 

“Anything you say, darling,” he says, and kisses him just one more time. 

.

.

.

“You’re so weird about this guy,” Salma says, taking a drag off her cigarette. Jesse steals it from her and takes one himself. 

“So what?” he says. 

“So you’re weird,” Salma says, and kisses him. 

He lets her, and it’s good, but it don’t feel like kissing Chance. 

.

.

.

In a warm little corner of the closet, Jesse and Chance curl up and put their hands all over each other. Chance’s pheromones smell better than _anything_ , and Jesse can’t resist nuzzling into his throat again and again. Chance bites him a couple times, which is not something Jesse knew he was gonna like so much. Like—really, who would’ve called that one? 

It’s real sweet. He’s charmed by it, if he’s gonna be honest. Chance ain’t the charming type, but just about everything he does manages to charm Jesse anyway. 

So they kiss in their warm little corner, and they put their hands all over each other, and everything is pheromone-sweet and perfect, just like every time Chance lets Jesse touch him. They make a comfortable tangle together, and Jesse luxuriates in the feeling. He don’t get to luxuriate in much, so he’s glad for the excuse to do it. Gotta take pleasure in things while you’ve got them. 

He’s gonna think it’s ironic that he thought that, later. 

.

.

.

“Don’t,” Chance says, so Jesse don’t. 

.

.

.

“Come _here_ ,” Chance says, so Jesse does. 

.

.

.

“You don’t make sense no more,” Salma says. Jesse feels like _everything_ makes sense, for the first time. 

“I ain’t trying to,” he says instead of that. She scoffs at him and climbs out the window. He follows her out. 

.

.

.

If someone asked him, he couldn’t say he rightly remembers the last good day. 

Head injuries are a bitch. 

.

.

.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?!” 

It’s their damn foster father, of course. 

Jesse and Chance leap apart, but it’s obviously miles too late. Their foster father grabs Jesse by the ankle and drags him out of the bed, and Chance yells in alarm. Jesse understands the alarm, since a) the man looks downright _murderous_ , and b) it’s the top bunk he’s dragging him out of. He’s fast enough to catch the side of the bed and strong enough to keep his grip, but that don’t exactly mean he’s safe. He manages to yank his leg out of their foster father’s grip and controls his fall well enough to land _mostly_ on the bottom bunk, so there’s that. 

That look on the man’s face is _not_ reassuring. 

Jesse’s fast, though—Jesse’s always been fast—and he manages to dodge the first punch. Their foster father’s meaty fist hits the wall behind him and caves it in, and Jesse curses furiously and scrambles to the side. This is bad. This is _bad_. 

There’s a lot of yelling—mostly from their foster father, but some from Chance—and Jesse gets hit a few times and dodges a few more hits and then gets hit harder. He don’t hit back, because all he can think is how damn _angry_ that’d make the man, and this is already the angriest he’s ever seen him. He don’t think this is gonna be one of the times he gets a few swats and that’s it. 

_“SALMA!”_ he hears Chance shriek, and thinks, irrationally: what’s he yelling about _her_ for? 

Then something clicks, and Jesse sees the gun past their foster father’s shoulder, and the whole world goes gray at the edges. 

“Get off him or I’ll fucking _kill_ you,” Salma snarls. 

Jesse ain’t got littermates, but he wonders if this is what it’s like. 

.

.

.

Salma don’t even shoot the gun. She don’t do nothing but threaten their bastard of a foster father with it. The way the cops act when they show up, though, you’d think she’d shot a _pup_. Jesse’s more shocked they don’t kill her than anything else, the way they’re acting, and they rough her up a lot more than they need to. 

The social workers aren’t far behind the cops. Chance gives a pretty rational report of what happened—they only take him a room over, Jesse can hear clear as day what he says and what the social worker asks. 

Unfortunately, what the social worker asks ain’t _good_. 

He gets one last glimpse of both Salma and Chance—him through the crack in the door, and her in handcuffs—and that’s the last time he sees either of them. 

.

.

.

They put him in a new home. It’s as bad as any of them, and the mom’s convinced she can save his poor queer soul, if only he comes to church with ‘em every week and don’t try to pick the lock on the fridge or talk back none. Jesse hates it, but not as much as he hates that his social worker won’t tell him shit about what happened to Salma and Chance. She says he needs to get away from bad influences. He says she’s a bitch. 

It don’t exactly make her any more inclined to tell him nothing. 

.

.

.

“Ain’t you a sweet little thing,” one of the older As in the home says with a smirking leer. 

“I ain’t,” Jesse retorts flatly. He hates heat. No—he hates how other people _act_ when he’s in heat. 

“Don’t be like that, cutie, I’ll— _fuck_!” The guy jerks back, clutching at his bleeding hand, and Jesse gives him a cold look and flicks the blood off his knife. 

“You deaf?” he asks. “Said I ain’t _sweet_.” 

“You fucking bitch!” 

.

.

.

When Jesse was real little, somebody told him to run. 

It’s about time he took the advice, he thinks. 

.

.

.

“And who’re you, kid?” the pale A in the pretty clothes and perfect lipstick asks. Her smirk ain’t pretty at all, which is something Jesse likes about her. 

“Name’s McCree,” he lies. 

“A pleasure,” she says, tipping her hat to him nicely. “You can call me Ashe.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)


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